A Farmer Or Something
by College Fool
Summary: Jaune didn't have to become a Hero, or even a Hunter. Not really. He could always have been a farmer or something. Pyrrha though... (Now with the multi-part Part Two: Oum Made a Farmer. Complete.)
1. A Farmer or Something

_Jaune didn't have to become a Hunter. Not really. He could always have been a farmer or something.  
_

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Disclaimer: I don't own RWBY. It belongs to RoosterTeeth, and the memory of the master of computer animation. May your brainchild keep moving forward, Monty.

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**A Farmer or Something**

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_Yet, I speak truth, when you arrive there you will take revenge on them for their outrages. When, though, you have killed the Suitors in your palace, by cunning or openly, with your sharp sword, then pick up a shapely oar and travel on till you come to a race that knows nothing of the sea, that eat no salt with their food, and have never heard of crimson-painted ships, or the well-shaped oars that serve as wings. And let this be your sign, you cannot miss it: that meeting another traveler he will say you carry a winnowing-fan on your broad shoulder._

Homer, _The Odyssey_

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In another time, in another place, Jaune never lied about his transcripts, never stole the family weapons from the fireplace mantle, and never snuck away in the middle of the night to chase a fool's dream of Heroes.

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_In another time, in another place, Pyrrha knew she was destined to be a Champion and Hero from a young age. It took years to learn that the Oracle's prediction was a curse, not a blessing- after all, what would be the need of a Great Hero is not even greater suffering?  
_

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He lived the life his parents had wanted for him, the life of peace they had fought so hard to secure for their family.

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_Hers was a life of glory and accomplishment, magnificent and inspiring. The last time she saw her parents, before she left for Beacon, it was with tears of pride in their eyes, glad their training had been successful._

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He had friends, normal as they might have been.

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_Beacon was kind enough, if odd. She entered with hopes, dreams of fitting in like everyone else. Of making friends, of having someone of her own to share simple confidence in. A lonely girl in red on the ground was her first attempt. It would not be her last.  
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He never lost them until old age, not to war or pestilence or famine or tragedy.

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_Her first partner died before the Initiation was over- dashed by the Deathstalker in its own cave. A tragedy, they said- how unfortunate that everyone else already had been paired. _

_Her second, the first to lose her own partner to a swarm of Grimm, lasted a week before she took her own life. To be too close to a partner was to risk dependence. The third was cocky, over-reliant on her and her fame- and fell to the White Fang as soon as she was absent. Others came. They all died. No matter how hard she tried._

_Eventually they stopped trying. Team NPR was merely support, a partnership and a spare worth both of them to save the day whenever needed._

_Years later, she confided to Weiss that she was glad they hadn't become partners- if only so that the Heiress didn't fall victim to the curse._

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He never had enemies, though there were some he disagreed with.

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_The White Fang Rebellion defined her. The Breach started an uprising, years in the making. Friends turned and kingdoms fell as years of planning and conspiracy tore against each other. She fought through it all, unbeaten, a Legend in her own time._

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He never hated them, no matter how annoying.

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_She became what she hated, and hated herself for it, hated how much hate she swallowed down each day. A Champion was poise, dispassionate, the image of self-control- the virtues of stoicism and self-restraint worthy of a hero._

_It should never have become her mask of merciless execution. _

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He never knew war, or conflict, or strife.

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_The war raged on and on, long enough that the days of being a Champion-in-Training were a distant memory. There were no more new Champions now- not since Sanctum had been overrun. Just as there were few new Hunters since Beacon had dimmed._

_She was among the last. So long as she fought, they would not be forgotten. They would live through her legend._

/

He did know loss, but only the sort of outliving your parents and older friends.

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_Her parents had been early casualties- a cowardly attempt to bring down the champion through dirty means. Then elements of RWBY- a heroic sacrifice there, a crippling injury there, a soul broken by guilt, another removed by family._

_But it was Ren and Nora that broke her. Even if she hadn't been as close as they were together, they had been her closest friends. Her touchstones to normality. She mourned. She raged. She avenged them in a struggle that became a legend in its own right. And then she was __alone __once again.  
_

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In his entire life, he never once went further than the ten miles it took to reach the next village.

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_She traveled the world. She went to exotic places. She met new people. And then she killed them. _

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And yet, he was content with his life of simple deeds and simple kindness.

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_They honored her for it. Showered her with respect and adulation even as she held back her bile. Guilt and disgust and trauma at fighting for 'necessity,' for 'the greater good,' for other people's battles in other people's lands for other people's reasons. She lied encouragements to others, giving them hope to travel a road she had long since despaired of.  
_

/

In another time, Jaune Arc never lied his way into becoming a Hero.

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_In her time, Pyrrha Nikos was **the** Hero. Champion, Huntress, Goddess of Victory. When Beacon was rebuilt, it was her statue (and hers alone) that would greet students._

_(And then, one day, she disappeared.)_

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But he did meet one once.

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_She didn't know where she was, honestly- she had simply picked a direction away from the battlefields and started walking. She knew she was further from the old fronts when fewer people pointed and stared as the Champion walked past._

_One day a cart carrying crops passing her slowed to a stop. A blonde man with blue eyes looked at her curiously._

_"What's that?" he asked, pointing to Milo balanced on her shoulder. "Some sort of fancy new shovel?"_

/

And married her, never knowing.

/

_"Nothing so useful or important," she claimed. "Would you mind if I caught a ride?"_

_"I'm not going far," he warned even as he offered a hand. "Just down the road to home, Miss…?"_

_"Home sounds marvelous," Pyrrha said, taking his hand with the first real smile in years._

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Jaune Arc was a Farmer.

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_Pyrrha Nikos preferred to be remembered as a Farmer's Wife._

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And that was something.

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_It was all she needed to be happy._

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He just wanted a peaceful life for his own children.

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_His wife agreed, never training their children in the way of heroes, in the art of war._

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And he intended to let both sets of family heirlooms stay where they belonged, up and unused on the fireplace mantle.

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_Until one day two empty children's beds, an empty fireplace mantle, and a foolish shared dream of heroism set the wheel of Fate turning once more._

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Fin

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_In another time and place, Jaune was something else.  
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_ /_

Author Notes:

An idea that has been bouncing around my head for awhile now. Obviously based on Jaune's words to Pyrrha, about what he could have done with his life instead of Beacon. I like to think that Jaune could have lived a happy, peaceful life... but that things would have been worse all around without him.

(Well, I take that back. I think Jaune would have chased after his kids and been eaten by a beowolf, but that didn't fit well into this story.)

I used the / to delineate transitions because FFN is finicky with its page breaks bar. I find that they appear and disappear inconsistently, so this may become a thing going forward... which is easier for me, honestly, since I can just type that into the text documents.

I intend to make more of these in the future, after I return from a long trip. I seem to have a thing for Jaune AU's or backstory rewrites that _don't_ make him into an utter badass- while the machismo can jump off a cliff, Jaune being the weak guy who doesn't quit and tries to do the right thing is central to his character, and a major part of his charm. It humanizes him in a way that others aren't, and it's his weakness that contrasts how impressive everyone else is.

So expect more alternative life/career choices for Jaune in the future. Modest, mundane, simpler lives befitting a guy who wasn't cut out to make it into Beacon and the world of heroes. And yet, somehow, each job will still bring him in contact with one of his friends from Beacon.


	2. Oum Made a Farmer Verse 1

I (still) don't own Ruby. And to the regret of some, I don't write for it either.

I also don't own, or even possess, the skill of Paul Harvey, in prose of speaking.

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**Oum made a Farmer**

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_**And for his Eighth Hero, Oum looked down on his planned blood-stained Remnant and said, "I need a caretaker." So Oum made a farmer. **_

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Their first time together was their first night under the same roof.

She was the stranger who shared dinner after being picked up on the side of the road. He was the farmer offered her sanctuary. She was the honored guest. He was the host. Sacred laws of hospitality guaranteed her protection. He would never have compelled her in any way, and it never occurred to him to do so. That was the simple sort of man he was.

It was only appropriate that he'd be concerned when he woke up to the sound of fevered dreams and night terrors. It was only proper that he'd wake her from her nightmare and offer to do whatever he could to help her. It was only right that, having given it, he would keep his word.

What she asked wasn't improper. Just to be held for a little while. What she meant might have been. But it wasn't wanton, and even if it wasn't love (yet), it made it.

(For him, it was a cherished memory. For her, it was the night that the waking nightmares were banished to where they belonged, and the start of days that passed like a dream she never had to wake from.)

Hair like hay, a wiry strength, and a farmer's tan that left his hands and face and neck looking like the soil of the honest earth. His hands are worn and leathery- soft and nimble and strong all at once, with callouses not from weapon hilts but from constant hard work holding reigns and hoes and ropes and everything else a farmer needs.

He's nervous, and awkward, and with a red tinge that isn't sunburn as she leads him into the bedroom. He's inexperienced and ignorant of this sort of thing but he's also kind, oh so kind, and Pyrhha knows that even if he is simple he will simply be good. He will be as considerate as she wants, as gentle as she needs, and through him her heart will heal.

(She looks at her future husband, his future wife is looking at him, looking at _him_ despite being wonderful and exotic and so beautiful herself, and she smiles as she takes him all in. "You are marvelous," she always says afterwards in that awkward formal way of hers, playing with his hair like a cat with straw.)

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Author Note:

This is not so much the sequel, but the spiritual continuation of 'A Farmer or Something.' It's broken in many parts because (A) that's just my thing, and (B) if I didn't it would all outweigh the first part, which I still consider the crux and core of the premise of this piece of work.

It's also the sorta-kinda-not-really apology/make-up gift to Arkos after 'An Affair or Something,' even though this was written first. It's just been waiting to be posted. This is for you, Pyrrha.


	3. Oum Made a Farmer Verse 2

I (still) don't own Ruby. And to the regret of some, I don't write for it either.

I also don't own, or even possess, the skill of Paul Harvey, in prose of speaking.

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**Oum made a Farmer**

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**_Oum said, "I need somebody willing to get up before dawn, milk cows, work all day in the fields, milk cows again, eat supper and then go to town and stay past midnight at a meeting of the school board." So Oum made a farmer. _**

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It's two in the morning when he quietly opens the door to his home, trying not to wake his recent guest. Even if she is the visitor and he the owner, even if he is dead tired and desperately wants to fall into his own bed and pass out, he courteously tries to tiptoe past the living room sofa where she has slept since her first night here.

It's hard to do that when green eyes are already wide awake and watching for you.

"Where were you?" his guest asks, and he thinks there's a tension in those three words that he hasn't heard before. He doesn't know what it is, because he doesn't know the true meaning of fear, so the closest thing that comes to mind is a young sister afraid of the dark corners of the barn at night.

"The town hall meeting went a little long," he deigns to explain, even though he is tired and worn out and owes her no more answers if he'd rather sleep, and he wants to sleep so very much. "There was a military recruiter there, looking for volunteers to join the peace keepers. Offering good pay too," he answers instead, in case she is looking for a job.

"What did you tell them?" she asks. He's not imagining it now- her shoulders are as stiff as a plank of wood and there's a concern beyond just the prospect of midnight dalliances or friendly women of the town.

"That I'm busy," Jaune answers honestly. "I have my hands full enough trying to manage this farm as it is. It's just going to be a bit harder if the usual farm hands go off to join the military. I couldn't afford to do that if I wanted to. Which I-" His sentences are broken by massive yawns, but he manages to be understood. "Which I don't," he finally manages.

She relaxes, a cat unwinding as a scare passes. "I see," she says with a relieved smile. "Why don't you get some rest?" she offers, no longer delaying him.

"If," he starts, but yawns once more. "If you're still here in the morning, can you wake me up in three hours?" he asks. "I can't fall behind on the morning chores."

"Of course," she agrees. "I'll help as well."

He tries to say she doesn't have to, that he's already given his word that she can stay as long as she needs, and that as a guest she doesn't have to pay for her unexpected stay even if she hasn't indicated how long it will be. Arc words, and all that. But he can't manage around the yawns. Instead he thanks her and trudges off to bed, falling asleep before he finishes falling, never even taking his boots off, and not once having any dreams of glory or duty or any of that martial heroism.

Instead of dreams of legends and adventure, what he remembers next and always is how he's woken up by a gentle shaking as she keeps her word. He's so tired he can't even think be embarrassed that there's a beautiful woman alone with him in his room. Again. But he's not so tired that he can't feel refreshed- or notice that his boots are off and there's a blanket over him that he hadn't put on last night. Her smiling face suggests who he has to thank.

(Not blame. Never to blame. That's simply not how he thinks- he never learned what irony is, but he wouldn't use it if he did, basic honesty is so ingrained in him. The phrase would never come to mind.)

"You're still here," he says, something between a question and wonder. "Thank you."

"As long as you let me," she says simply, still smiling but still reserved, still giving no hint on when she might leave or where she might go next.

"I gave you my word," he reminds, a bit sterner than he intended- maybe he's still tired, maybe he doesn't want his hospitality to be exploited, but really he's... irked... that she doesn't believe him. Believe in him. He... dislikes... distrust, and if the world before she came here filled her with it, he'd rather she stay with him as long it takes to fix that.

"You can stay here as long as you want."

"Then I shall," she says, reaching forward to pull him up and onto his feet and towards her. He's still tired, and he so stumbles, but she's there and catches him with her arms on on him even as his arms encircle hers for a moment.

"Thank you," he says softly into her ear, expressing gratitude as he should whenever someone does something he should be grateful for, and this certainly this counts- both the catch, and what she said before. He may be too tired to be flustered by her proximity, but he's not too tired to smile in gratitude. Will never be too tired to smile for her.

She turns, but not before he catches a glimpse of slightly rosy cheeks that don't confuse him in the least. Perhaps they might once have, when he was just a boy, but he is a man now. Jaune may not know the true meaning of fear, may not understand irony, may not even be able to even think in terms of hate, but that is because he was raised by parents who taught him better and more important things. For all the things he is too innocent to think, he is far from ignorant when it comes to the most important thing of all- love.

"Come, I've made us breakfast already," she says without a stammer, and with that she leads him by the hand into his kitchen in what is rapidly becoming their home.

(He never buys an alarm clock again- never needs to. Pyrrha- reliable, tireless Pyrrha- wakes him with a smile every day for the rest of their lives.)


	4. Oum Made a Farmer Verse 3

I (still) don't own Ruby. And to the regret of some, I don't write for it either.

I also don't own, or even possess, the skill of Paul Harvey, in prose of speaking.

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**Oum Made a Farmer**

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**_"I need somebody with arms strong enough to rustle a calf and yet gentle enough to deliver his own grandchild. Somebody to call hogs, tame cantankerous machinery, come home hungry, have to wait for lunch until his wife's done feeding visiting ladies and tell the ladies to be sure and come back real soon - and mean it." So Oum made a farmer. _**

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It's a summer day some time later when Pyrrha's past catches up with her.

It's hot- real hot- the kind of heat that saps the strength and sweats the bones and where drinking just water isn't enough. He's been sucking salt all day- not just sweat but some concoction of Pyrrha's that tastes vile. He doesn't understand it, doesn't even know what 'electrolytes' are, but Pyrrha swears by it and he trusts Pyrrha and it truly does seem to help.

He's so caught up in the work- of clearing a tree that fell in a summer storm, of fixing the pasture fence and shooing the animals back in to keep them from running out- that he doesn't hear the vehicle approach. Doesn't see the figures approach the house uninvited, doesn't hear Pyrrha drop the plate in shock and alarm, doesn't even notice anyone has come until he's done with the morning must-do's and trudges on in for some cool shade and lovely tea and whatever his wife has prepared for the mid-day meal.

The wind caries words to him. He catches maybe one in three.

"You could have told us you were alive."

"We were so worried."

"Come back with us."

"I'm done with that life."

He doesn't understand any of it- doesn't know if it's his place- but this is his home so he opens the door anyway and announces himself without hesitation.

"Pyrrha? I'm back! Do we have company?"

Four sets of eyes turn towards him- one familiar and relieved, three with the caution he would give to the howls of beowolves in the distance. It disconcerting being viewed as a threat, even if he doesn't realize that or understand why they instinctively reach for their waists before visibly relaxing. Something about their hardened gaze says 'soldier,' and Jaune knows that they're tied to the past that Pyrrha never, ever, talks about.

"Just some old friends, dear," Pyrrha says in a tone that he doesn't quite understand, before turning to her friends. "And this is Jaune. My husband- and soon to be father of two," she says with far more pride, resting her hand on her belly.

(Jaune already knows, but he still blushes as the guests excitedly cheer and gather closer. Pyrrha glows in a way she hadn't until she came here, and whatever questions were being raised before he entered are never raised again.)

One guest, a bit quieter and reserved than the rest, keeps giving him a measuring gaze. He can't help but glance back- she's pretty, to be sure, but something about her is familiar. He can't help but think of the general store in town, but can't think of why.

When it comes time for the ladies to leave, he sees them out with good cheer even as his stomach growls. "Come back real soon, alright?" he bids them. "Pyrrha doesn't get visits from old friends, but I'm sure she'd be glad to see you again."

There's a meaningful exchange of glances amongst the three women. One of them, stiffly walking on a cane, speaks for them when she politely but noncommittally accepts the offer. She and another turn to leave, but the third one, the one who shot glances, stays behind.

"Do you know who she even is?" she asks bluntly, pointing back into the house where his wife is preparing lunch.

Jaune doesn't even understand the question. "She's Pyrrha Arc, my wife," he answers instantly Did she need to be anyone else?

The prim, short woman opens her mouth to say something, but visibly thinks better of it. "Maybe it's for the best," she says instead. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Arc," she says, and leaves.

They never return, and no one ever follows them, but soon after Pyrrha starts receiving letters and begins a correspondence that she never really explains to him.


	5. Oum Made a Farmer Verse 4

I (still) don't own Ruby. And to the regret of some, I don't write for it either.

I also don't own, or even possess, the skill of Paul Harvey, in prose of speaking.

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**Oum Made a Farmer**

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**_Oum said, "I need somebody willing to sit up all night with a newborn colt. And watch it die. Then dry his eyes and say, 'Maybe next year.' I need somebody who can shape an ax handle from a persimmon sprout, shoe a horse with a hunk of car tire, who can make harness out of haywire, feed sacks and shoe scraps. And who, planting time and harvest season, will finish his forty-hour week by Tuesday noon, then, pain'n from 'tractor back,' put in another seventy-two hours." So Oum made a farmer. _**

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It's a stupid thing to feel bad about, a farm animal dying. It's what they did- what everything that ever lived did, but especially those born and bred for the slaughter. Only children become overly attached to cute little pigs or awkward calves and other such creatures bred to be killed, and while Jaune may be a simple farmer it's the farmers who often are responsible for raising and treating and taking care of nature's bounty until the point it is slain and devoured and another is raised in its place.

Jaune's a farmer, and an adult. He's seen this many times- sometimes held the knife to cut the throat himself. That was the sort of responsibility his father taught him- to own both the life and the death of the creatures in his care, to give them the respect and consideration due to them despite their short, brief lives. It isn't, should never be, pleasant, but he should be used to it now.

But this wasn't a creature of meat. This was a horse, a foal, and it was supposed to have a long life and be something more- something better- something _symbolic._ And now it's dead, too young to even have warranted a name.

The mare that mothered it is fine- logically he knows he could try again. But there's no time, not for what he had planned. And that's what makes him sad, even as he makes the arrangements for the butcher's shop to take the still-born foal away. It died, but nothing about its death will be wasted.

And so he returns home late once more, though this time it isn't morning. As always though, Pyrrha is waiting for him, refusing to go to sleep until he does. He used to tease her about that- ask if she thought he was going to disappear on her if she fell asleep before he did. The first time she said 'yes,' he stopped.

It's simply one of her things, just like her gentle wake-ups and foreign habits and those occasional stares into the distance that he's come to think of as the 'before.' He loves these things about her- or at least loves how he can bring her back into the present with nothing but a smile- but just once he had wanted to show her how much she meant to him. To give her a pleasant surprise.

She saw his face, and knew him well enough to know what had happened. "No?" she asked anyway, giving him a comforting hand.

"Didn't make it," Jaune admitted. "Maybe next year."

"It's alright, Jaune," she comforted. "Maybe next year." She sounded like a real farmer too nowadays.

"It was going to be a present for you, you know," he admitted, spoiling the surprise. "For our anniversary."

"Our anniversary?" she asks, confused. "But we married in the winter. It's still summer."

"Of the day we met," Jaune clarified. "I dickered with Tom from the Stables and I was going to get to keep the foal in exchange for helping him raise a new barn. I wanted to give it to you, something for you to ride in and out of town whenever you wanted. A steed worthy of you, rather than having to watch an ass pull a cart the entire way. You deserve better."

Pyrrha smiled at him even as she swatted him for that self-deprecation. Oum, this woman always smiled for him, and to this day he still doesn't know what he did to deserve it. "That's sweet, but I'd rather walk there and back in the dirt with you than ride up high alone," she said. "Maybe if there were two horses, and we could ride in together with everyone looking at us…"

"With a child on each of our backs?" Jaune said with a laugh, and she laughed as well. Maybe he hadn't thought this through far enough after all, but he can't bear to mind as she laughs as well.

Pyrrha looked at him, a playful glimmer in her eyes. "Well, if you really do want to celebrate this anniversary I suppose you could give me a ride like last time," she suggested.

"What, on the cart? It's a bit late to hitch it up, isn't it? And I don't think my back could take a piggyback ride," he said, even if she was sure to give him one of those Sanctum massages afterwards. He loved those massages, the feelings of her wandering hands kneading his back and elsewhere…

"Not quite what I had in mind," his wife said coyly, and gently pushed him down.

She got her ride, even though he never did get her a horse. He did give her something else, though, and instead of learning how to ride a horse they had a new project of building a new bedroom before the planting season began.

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Author note:

Apologies for the delay. FFN was down as far as log-in was concerned. Hopefully it will be better going forward.


	6. Oum Made a Farmer Verse 5

I (still) don't own Ruby. And to the regret of some, I don't write for it either.

I also don't own, or even possess, the skill of Paul Harvey, in prose of speaking.

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**Oum Made a Farmer**

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**_Oum had to have somebody willing to ride the ruts at double speed to get the hay in ahead of the rain clouds and yet stop in mid-field and race to help when he sees the first smoke from a neighbor's place. So Oum made a farmer. _**

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Fear was here. Fear was wrong. Fear was supposed to be gone.

For Pyrrha, though, fear was always around the corner. Always one bad dream or empty bed away. Jaune was supposed to keep the fear away, not be the cause of it.

She ignored the neighbor, remembering old rhythms and habits. Muscle memory and familiar latches clicked into place, the old silence of empty training rooms and the sound of sliding greaves echoing in her head, and at some point the neighbor's frantic panic turned into confusion and questions.

Pyrrha didn't answer her, taking the shield off the shelf. She left the sword- she would never need it again, she'd promised herself that and an Arc never goes back on her word- but the shield could prove useful. There was no time to waste, even as she gathered her hair into a quick ponytail.

"Stay here and watch my children. I'll be back," she told the stunned neighbor, and began to sprint.

She was out of shape- had neglected her training to be a mother and a wife and a farmer's wife at that. But old habits and present need and her semblance carried her forward, dragging her by the metal in her shin guards and wrist bands and shield. Once she may have been faster, but she wouldn't care so long as she was fast enough.

The fire flickered and flared in the distance. Other people were already running towards it- she passed them in a flash of bronze and red. Some people were gathered outside the blazing building, pointing and staring meaningfully inside.

Fear tried to grip her, but she ruthlessly crushed it with experienced ease. It wasn't too late until she saw him herself- there was still a chance. Her mind calculated trajectories, her a semblance weighed her armor and the mother who wore it as if hefting a spear. (_He went to help, the neighbor said, but why didn't Pyrrha see him outside? Because he was the sort to go in to help out and-)_

She could catapult straight into the second floor, use her shield to crash through the window and begin to work her way down. Dragging Jaune might be hard, but she'd manage it somehow- she'd use her semblance to drag herself by shrapnel in her own bones if she had to, but there was no way she would lose those important to her ever again. People were pointing at her, even as she approached and prepared to leap onto the fence stake that would serve as her launching point. Five, four, three-

"Pyrrha!"

Her world skids to a halt. She skids, or tries to. Legs no longer trained try to stop struggle to keep from stumbling, and fail at that. He was there to catch her at the fence post, gracelessly but he was there, and that was all that mattered. He gripped her tightly but she gripped back harder, hard enough to leave bruises, and would not let go. Would not let go of him, would not let him go, it mattered not.

"It's alright. It's alright. I'm safe," he whispered, soothing her and the terrors that had threatened to break free. He was a little smoky, a little worn, but Pyrrha kissed his sunburned brow and sobbed in relief and thanked Oum that he really was alright.

He'd never gone further into the burning building than the front porch, just as the last person was leaving. He hadn't gone upstairs in a brave but pointless search for something else, he wasn't a hero who'd risk his life for treasured mementoes or family heirlooms, he was a farmer and was practical and knew that while a home is a home it can always be rebuilt with help from friends and family so long as you're all still alive. Pyrrha had never been so thankful for that in all her life.

Their neighbor's house burned down. Her family did not. Jaune invited the neighbors over to stay over as long as necessary, but it wasn't needed because they had family of their in town they could stay with in the meantime. The community was already coming up with a plan of how to raise a new barn and build a new house and gather supplies, and while some people still looked at Pyrrha and her foreign things with curiosity their first concern was helping the people who needed it most.

So when all Pyrrha needed was Jaune, Jaune helped her as best he could, even if it meant awkwardly climbing over that fence without her letting go. That night they held each other extra close without saying a word, and he never asked the questions of her past or wondered how she ran so fast or inquired about the strange metal bands that left bruises from how hard they had pressed and pulled.

(Because if that's what they did to her then he was secretly just as glad as she that they were never worn again.)


	7. Oum Made a Farmer Verse 6

I (still) don't own Ruby. And to the regret of some, I don't write for it either.

I also don't own, or even possess, the skill of Paul Harvey, in prose of speaking.

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**Oum Made a Farmer**

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**_Oum said, "I need somebody strong enough to clear trees and heave bails, yet gentle enough to tame lambs and wean pigs and tend the pink-combed pullets, who will stop his mower for an hour to splint the broken leg of a meadow lark. It had to be somebody who'd plow deep and straight and not cut corners. Somebody to seed, weed, feed, breed and rake and disc and plow and plant and tie the fleece and strain the milk and replenish the self-feeder and finish a hard week's work with a five-mile drive to church." _**

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Their life is simpler after the fire. Not easier- never easier, the chores never get lighter- but simpler. He never does get her those two horses- she never does care. She has him, they have their children, their children have a family, their family has a home, and that home has a farm to feed and raise them all on. In light of all that she has, she dares not be greedy when fate has deigned to give her this much.

When people come by to ask about the day of the fire and the metal clothes, when someone brings up the war and lingering questions, she simply smiles quietly and lets Jaune field the questions. Which he does marvelously by diverting them away from her and talking about how lucky they all were that no one was hurt and how the neighbors have invited everyone over for a cookout to celebrate and thank everyone for the barn raising they all did, and wouldn't it be kind if everyone brought something extra and left some plates or gifts to help restock the new home? And the people nod and agree and basic human decency wins out and eventually people stop asking about the fire and her amazing arrival and let the past remain where it should be.

Time goes on. The chores never end. She learns to measure the passing of time by the moons and the seasons, to feel the oncoming rain through the clouds and in her bones, to care for animals and mend clothes and enjoy simple stews and a hundred other things that long-gone friends might once have scoffed and dismissed as demeaning or boorish but which she finds a simple virtue in living and doing. She doesn't mind at all because they help the ones she loves and never harm anyone else. Muscles slacken, her chest loosens, a once honed aura is left to rust, and eventually she no longer thinks of herself as 'Former Champion' but rather identifies as 'Farmer's Wife.'

She's thankful to Jaune for that, for helping her become something other than a wounded warrior and broken weapon and traumatized soldier, even if he never knew. Even if he never knows, never tried to help, but simply did.

Old enemies or distant elitists may scorn her choice, may claim she's weak in binding herself to a man, that she should liberate herself and be independent and strong on her own, but she dismisses them easily and pays them no mind. She was the pinnacle of the independent woman, she was the strongest and the most respected, but she was never so happy as she was when she found someone who treated her not as an icon, but as just another person. It happened to be a man, it happened to be Jaune, and yes they did get married after whispers were already spreading of the young man and woman living together out of wedlock, but she's not going to be guilted out of her peace and happiness by distant judges who were never there for her when she was alone. Their advice may mean well, may even be good, but her life is not bad. Far from it.

Long after she stops training and doing combat stretches and instinctively scouting the perimeter, Pyrrha has one weekly ritual that she keeps alive until she dies. There's a shrine in the village to the Creator her parents and Sanctum raised her to revere, and each week when Jaune goes into town she makes a point of going there to give thanks for the life she's finally found.


	8. Oum Made a Farmer Verse 7

I (still) don't own Ruby. And to the regret of some, I don't write for it either.

I also don't own, or even possess, the skill of Paul Harvey, in prose of speaking.

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**Oum Made a Farmer**

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**_"Somebody who'd bale a family together with the soft strong bonds of sharing, who would laugh and then sigh, and then reply, with smiling eyes, when his son says he wants to spend his life 'doing what dad does.'" So Oum made a farmer. _**

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It's a quiet, clear night on the farm. Beautiful, too- the best thing about the countryside is being able to see the stars, not having them drowned by the streetlights and city windows and all the hallmarks of civilization. It's a privilege typically reserved for the Hunters of Grimm, but farmers and settlers are blessed with it as well.

Pyrrha is alone, but not for long- never for long, and never will be for the rest of her life. Jaune comes out to stand with her, and in short order they've taken their customary place side by side. She leans into him, he leans into her, and it's no longer hurt or dependence but symmetry and love that keeps them together.

Pyrrha is content to enjoy the silence with him, but Jaune's not so still. He's sighing, he's laughing, and he wants to say something but isn't sure if he should lest he spoil the mood.

"What's wrong?" she asks, sparing him the dilemma. She'd be more concerned if he didn't share his thoughts with her.

"Nothing wrong," he says, meaning 'bad.' "Just… kids. The twins wanted to the story about Great-Grandpa again."

Pyrrha's mouth turns into a slight frown. "The war hero?" she says. "I thought we agreed-"

"I know, I know," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "I didn't- I blame their aunts for putting it into their heads. But they're asking, and they're getting impatient. They're going to leave one day, you know."

She knows, even if she doesn't like it. Sons and daughters never stop being children with sunburns, skinned knees, and missing teeth to their parents, no matter how old they grow. But they would grow older- she'd grown older. She was past her prime and had moved to the countryside, but those two would no doubt head to the Kingdoms at their earliest opportunity.

She wouldn't mind so much if it wasn't for the _why_\- because they were good souls who wanted to do better things and be the best of people, without understanding how lonely achieving greatness could be. They might have each other, at least at the start, but they had no idea what was ahead.

She hadn't told them. Couldn't. Telling them would no doubt light the fire even brighter, even as they'd no doubt carelessly reopen long-closed wounds. So she'd just watch, silently but lovingly, and support them from a distance as best she could when they did choose that path. She'd already written letters yet to be sent, warning old acquaintances. Someone would be on the lookout for them if they went to Beacon, at least.

But that was old news. They'd known this, fought this, and forgiven this to each other before. "What else?" she asked.

"Jared wants to inherit the farm," Jaune said, pride fighting with concern.

That was… new. Not entirely unexpected- Jared didn't have the wander-bug like the twins did- but he wasn't the sedentary sort either. She'd expected him to at least see the city for some, before possibly coming back when they were old and unable to farm the land anymore. Half expected him to sell it rather than keep it.

"Did he say why?" she asked.

Jaune shook his head. "It was after the twins- after they were talking about their dreams. I must've not looked too happy, because he pulled me aside and asked if that meant he could have the whole farm when he was older. I asked if he really wanted to spend all his life doing what I do, and he- and he," Jaune choked, throat full of emotion. "He hugged me and nodded."

He was proud. He had tears in his eyes. He was sad.

"There's nothing wrong with what you do, Jaune," Pyrrha counseled. "It's a good life."

"I know," Jaune said. "I truly do, believe me. I give thanks every day for being so lucky. It's just- it's not the only good life out there, right? It worked for me- but it's not the only one. Not the only way. And it's not for everyone. I don't want to trap him here, to deny him a chance just because he doesn't know anything else."

"It's not a trap if he can freely leave," Pyrrha reminded. "It's a home. And even if he did leave- even if they all do- they can always come back, right? As long as you're here, it'll always be home- always welcoming and always with a bed waiting for them."

Jaune looked at her, and smiled in that way that still made her heart flutter. "You're wrong," he said.

"Oh?" she asked, not offended in the least.

"It won't be safe and peaceful because I'm here- it's be because _we're_ here. Together," he emphasized, fingers interlocking with hers. "This farm, this family, we wouldn't be here today like this without you. I'm so thankful for you, you know that?" he asked, face moving closer.

"You could have just said 'I love you,' you know," she answered, closing in as well. "Because I love you."

She loved that he still had that embarrassed blush when she said such simple truths. She loved how he still stammered it back, so many children later. She loved how when they were together her heart fluttered but was at ease and that she never felt the old fears or hates of Before. She loved life now, even if she could never love the years of her youth, but she could at least admit that they had helped her appreciate the present.

"Thank you," she whispered, them and to him and the moon and the farm and the world itself, and leaned closer to kiss him.

"Eeeeewwww!" came a chorus right as their lips touched. They held it for a second longer, just to spite their audience, before turning to see the three sets of eyes. The twins had exaggerated looks of surprise- their daughter eyes comically wide, the boy pretending to be washing his mouth with soap. Jared looked embarrassed, whether from the parental affection or being caught or the reaction of his siblings.

"If you don't like that now, you will one day!" Farmer Jaune teased his children, shepherding them back inside. They laughed and they groaned but they obliged, leaving Pyrrha to enjoy another moment of the most glorious Creation. Glory found not in the battlefield or in legends or heroism, but in simply living a good life under the shattered moon in the farmhouse with the family built by those who worked this land.

Pyrrha gave her daily prayer of thanks to Oum the Creator for letting her live this simple life with a simple man on a simple farm, and went inside to spend good time with her family.


	9. Oum Made a Farmer Verse 8

I (still) don't own Ruby. And to the regret of some, I don't write for it either.

I also don't own, or even possess, the skill of Paul Harvey, in prose of speaking.

(Brief) Author Note:

Tomorrow is last chapter. Usual deal- ask any questions now, and I'll include them in tomorrow's author notes.

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**Oum Made a Farmer**

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**_And Oum looked at his creation, and saw that he was simple and good, and let him go on to become a Hero despite being unsuited for War. Yet Oum had no doubts, because he knew that this one would prove as worthy as the other Seven in caring for the people of bloody Remnant. Why, you ask?_**

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"Pyrrha, I know I'm going through a rough time right now. But I'm not that depressed! I can always be a farmer or something."

It's the night of the roof, and Pyrrha Nikos, Champion, is all but stalking her way away as soon as she's out of sight. She's hurt and confused and still taken aback by what she's learned but most of all she's-

'Jaune, you… _idiot_!'

-upset.

Not hatred, not fury, but disappointment and displeasure and disbelief. Why can't he get it? Why is he so stubborn? How simple could he be, to not realize that none of them, not even her, got here on their own? She had trainers, she had (still has) a family, she _thought_ she had him.

Heroes aren't _supposed_ to be able to do everything on their own- that's why they have teams and teammates, that's why they have a school to learn things from teachers whose job it is to help them. That's why the statue outside Beacon has multiple figures, and not just one.

Where did he get these ideas in his head from? How ignorant was he? Was he raised in a barn or something?

And _why_ did he consider being a farmer something less worthy?

Farmers are the foundation of civilizations. There is strength in honest hearts and weathered hands and tireless resilience to work the lands and provide the food that kingdoms would crumble without. There is power in their infinite potential- every soldier and statesman and weapon smith and administrator and petty criminal, everyone draws from the same well. Before they were those things, before they became professions and put on pretensions and pretended they had always been what they were, their ancestors were farmers who left the farm to become something else. There's a farmer behind everyone's family line, from the most privileged heiress to the lowliest civilian.

Farmers provided for them, and farmers became them, because they first existed to help the farmers. Before there were professional armies, there were farmers conscripted to protect their fields. Before there were councils and kingdoms, there were noble and women who led and rallied farmers together to defend other farmers, and it was for that reason they were considered noble in the first place. Before there were bureaucrats to administer them, there were farmers who produced the surpluses to need administering. Before there were craftsmen, there were the farmers who created their own tools and shared what they could spare.

Even Hunters and Huntresses, the only ones who could claim independent provisions and self-sufficiency, even they are tied to the farmers. The first Heroes didn't protect kingdoms or rescue princesses- the first Hunters saved farmers from evil men and wicked creatures, and were honored in return for making the land safe to raise and grow the societies that would follow the farmlands. Those Huntresses helped the farmers, and the farmers helped the Hunters in turn, and in time the two were so intermingled that there was no difference.

And even if there was- even if there were no Hunters or Huntresses about- then some day some brave farmer would stand up for what was right, might even win, and when he did he would be honored as a Hero all the same as those who had never known anything but the Hunt. Even if they never went back- even they never returned to plough their fields or care for their crops- those farmers who became heroes remembered their fellow farmers, who never forgot the most humble of peoples, and who played a vital part in linking the strongest of people to the humblest. They could make the best of Hunters, as good as those who were raised and trained from the youngest of ages and knew nothing else.

To be ashamed of farmers, to belittle the foundation of civilization itself, is to be ashamed and belittle the societies they created. No Hunter or Huntress, no protector of the people or well-intentioned advocate, should ever dismiss the smallest of people who were what the greatest of us were made from. There were, quite simply, the entire reason schools for Heroes existed in the first place.

No one should dishonor the simple farmer and treat them like less- so why would Jaune?_ That_ was why she was angry, and not just hurt or upset at little white lies or a compromise of integrity and the lack of trust.

She could forgive a friend, she could train a novice, but how could she believe that Jaune was meant to be a Hero if he didn't even have faith in himself as the sort of person Huntsmen and Huntresses existed to protect?

She didn't know how. So she thought. She tried to figure it out. She remembered a distant memory, though it required some studying in the library until she found what she was looking for. And she waited for her chance, waited for the right time, willing to outlast the seasons if need be.

(He succeeds well before then, of course. With a little help- a little nudge at the right time- but mostly by his own character and nature he stops being just a boy born in a barn and takes his first step towards being something… not better, but something equally worthy and respectable and of his own volition.)


	10. Oum Made a Farmer Final Verse

I (still) don't own Ruby. And to the regret of some, I don't write for it either.

I also don't own, or even possess, the skill of Paul Harvey, in prose of speaking.

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**Oum Made a Farmer**

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It's night and the rooftop again, but another night and another time. He's ready this time- ready to accept help, ready to learn.

"So what's first, Pyrrha?" he asks, giving her a smile that puts butterflies back in her stomach. "I'm ready for anything. No matter how bad I am at it, no matter how lowly, I'll do it," he promises, and even if they're not always honest an Arc never goes back on his word.

"A lesson," Pyrrha says. "Before you swing a sword, you should keep in mind why you're doing it."

"Classes?" Jaune whines, clearly wanting to get to the cool stuff from the start. "I don't have to be a scholar or something to be a Hunter, do I? I've never been good at studying." But even though he complains, he none the less sits down and prepares to listen.

"Not quite," Pyrrha says, looking him straight in the eye and pleased to see him looking back, all of his attention on her with an earnest diligence. Tonight she'll have to give thanks not only for having her teammate here and her friend back, but also give thanks for gaining such a willing student with the potential for something more. Because that's what he is to her, is, isn't it? The opportunity for a new start.

"We're going to talk about farmers," she explains, pulling out the old book she found in the library, finding the appropriate passage, and beginning from the start.

"And for his Eighth Hero…"

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**_And for his Eighth Hero, Oum looked down on his planned blood-stained Remnant and said, "I need a caretaker." So Oum made a farmer. _**

**_Oum said, "I need somebody willing to get up before dawn, milk cows, work all day in the fields, milk cows again, eat supper and then go to town and stay past midnight at a meeting of the school board." So Oum made a farmer. _**

**_"I need somebody with arms strong enough to rustle a calf and yet gentle enough to deliver his own grandchild. Somebody to call hogs, tame cantankerous machinery, come home hungry, have to wait for lunch until his wife's done feeding visiting ladies and tell the ladies to be sure and come back real soon - and mean it." So Oum made a farmer. _**

**_"I need somebody with arms strong enough to rustle a calf and yet gentle enough to deliver his own grandchild. Somebody to call hogs, tame cantankerous machinery, come home hungry, have to wait for lunch until his wife's done feeding visiting ladies and tell the ladies to be sure and come back real soon - and mean it." So Oum made a farmer. _**

**_Oum said, "I need somebody willing to sit up all night with a newborn colt. And watch it die. Then dry his eyes and say, 'Maybe next year.' I need somebody who can shape an ax handle from a persimmon sprout, shoe a horse with a hunk of car tire, who can make harness out of haywire, feed sacks and shoe scraps. And who, planting time and harvest season, will finish his forty-hour week by Tuesday noon, then, pain'n from 'tractor back,' put in another seventy-two hours." So Oum made a farmer. _**

**_Oum had to have somebody willing to ride the ruts at double speed to get the hay in ahead of the rain clouds and yet stop in mid-field and race to help when he sees the first smoke from a neighbor's place. So Oum made a farmer. _**

**_Oum said, "I need somebody strong enough to clear trees and heave bails, yet gentle enough to tame lambs and wean pigs and tend the pink-combed pullets, who will stop his mower for an hour to splint the broken leg of a meadow lark. It had to be somebody who'd plow deep and straight and not cut corners. Somebody to seed, weed, feed, breed and rake and disc and plow and plant and tie the fleece and strain the milk and replenish the self-feeder and finish a hard week's work with a five-mile drive to church." _**

**_"Somebody who'd bale a family together with the soft strong bonds of sharing, who would laugh and then sigh, and then reply, with smiling eyes, when his son says he wants to spend his life 'doing what dad does.'" So Oum made a farmer. _**

**_And Oum looked at his creation, and saw that he was simple and good, and let him go on to become a Hero despite being unsuited for War. Yet Oum had no doubts, because he knew that this one would prove as worthy as the other Seven in caring for the people of bloody Remnant. Why, you ask?_**

**_Because Oum made a farmer._**

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_Fin_

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Author Notes:

That's it- for real this time. I don't think I'll touch this one ever again, lest I dirty it.

For those who don't know, the poem here is based on the speach "God Made a Farmer" by Paul Harvey, made most famous by the Superbowl Commercial a few years back. Go look it up on youtube- but that 2 minutes and 40 seconds is some of my favorite prose. When I stumbled across it again by accident recently, I knew I had to use it- even I feel a little bit sacrilegious for changing it just a tad to suit my purposes.

Decided to use the 'Monty is RWBY God' trope for this all because, eh, why not. It fit quite appropriately. I mean, technically I'm the creator of this little thing, but it's a little fandom trope I don't mind appropriating here even if I'd rarely use it in other fics. One of these days I might do a worldbuilding short on the religions of Remnant or something, showing different potential ideas I'd have across the cast.

Posting style was once again post-a-day. Not only did it help this second chunk of the 'Farmer or Something' from overwhelming the first, and I do feel 'Farmer or Something' is the better/more compelling piece than 'Oum Made a Farmer', but the breaks did wonders for the sense of time progression across Pyrrha's story. Since this is probably the one unreservedly 'Pyrrha gets to live the happy ending she earned' thing I'll write, I figured I should let it last.

In terms of plot, the switch from AU to canon-compatible was/will be... I wouldn't say controversial, but it was a deliberate decision to bring this AU closer to canon. Even though Pyrrha is the focus in 'Oum Made a Farmer,' I wanted to show that Farmer Jaune was still Jaune, and that the difference was circumstance and not character. That the Jaune who lived a life of peace as a Farmer was the same Jaune who could have run to Beacon and made the differences he implicitly did. Using a continuation of the poem, and the continuity of the same faith/religion between the two timelines, was the linking device to indicate that Jaune was Jaune in either case, and that with him there Pyrrha could get a happy ending either way, even without going through all the suffering of the Farmer Jaune route.

To answer questions and thoughts left in reviews-

-Did I drop in a reference of 'Arc Words' semblance from Common Criminal?

A: Not really- cameo at worst. I just rather like Jaune's line about Arcs not going back on their word, to the point of seeing it as a family motto.

-Who were Pyrrha's friends/why did Jaune find one of them familiar/was that Weiss?

A: It's deliberately ambiguous, but yes. The visitors are the survivors of Team RWBY- though who is who is up to the reader. The one who asks Jaune if he knows who Pyrrha is is implicitly Weiss, in a parallel to their locker room discussion in canon. Jaune finds her familiar/associates her with the general store because of Schnee Corp, but doesn't know enough to remember why. He might have seen a photo of her once.

-Where did Jaune learn to be a farmer if his parents were warriors?

A: They retired. A bit implied in 'Farmer or Something,' but here the Arc parents wanted their children to have a peaceful life and so found the most peaceful, remote, safest corner of remnant to plop down a farm and raise their kids on. Canon doesn't make clear if Jaune's parents are still warriors, but call it the diverenge point of this AU if they are.

-Why isn't Jaune using trucks or tractors and things considering the technology in-series?

A: Because they're poor and on the frontier and far from the cities. It's easy to forget in the modern world, where first-world farming has access to the same sort of industry and technology as the cities, but industrial farming is relatively new. For most of history that didn't apply. It still doesn't in some parts of the world, including a place I spent the better part of a year.

In most frontier societies, farmlands far from the cities are often downright primitive- and Remnant hardly has an interstate system to conveniently drive down, or powerlines that safely go far into the wilderness. And that's not even touching on that technology in Remnant is implicitly a novel/new thing, considering that warriors went to war with plain sword and shield just a few generations ago. Jaune might know of cars and electronics, but he couldn't afford a car if he wanted and wouldn't have power for gadgets. He wouldn't even get cellphone reception out there. Oh the humanity.

(In short: Jaune is poor, and in the middle of nowhere, and there's no requirement that farmers have to be rich and modern.)

-What's up with Jaune and Pyrrha's kids? What's their story?

A: Never to be told (by me). After my stories of 'Househusband' and 'Affair', I have a headcanon that Jaune, if/when he gets married, will have/raise a set of twins, and another child.

That's all there is, and here it ends. I hope you enjoyed it all. Please leave thoughts with the review.


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